


If You're Starving, Swallow Your Pride

by atlas_white



Series: Bad Days are Coming [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 14:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlas_white/pseuds/atlas_white
Summary: Desperate and starving, Wilson calls upon the King of Shadows for help. But help comes at a price, and he must be willing to humble himself if he wants to survive.





	If You're Starving, Swallow Your Pride

 

Wilson had never wondered before what he would do to eat.

  
In a past life, the one he'd lived before he'd gone to America, before he'd come to this accursed island with its wretched forests and impossible caves, he had been the son of aristocracy, the very cream of society. He had always had more than enough to eat. He never would have imagined being obliged to question where his next meal would come from. 

Now he was shaking, an emptiness in his belly gnawing painfully through his insides as his wretched body demanded sustenance that he just wasn't giving it. His traps were empty, the bushes no longer producing for the searing heat that burned the life out of every living thing. The hunger made him weak, and the weakness made foraging in this hellish place that much more difficult.

He had no idea where his next meal would come from. 

Here he'd thought the _winter_ had been bad.

With a shaky sigh and the help of a handmade shovel, the scientist lowered himself to sit on the ground beneath the shelter of a makeshift lean-to, just to keep out of the sight of the cruel sun as it finally began to descend from the unlikely sky. He scratched lightly at the stubble that had begun to darken his face once again, and tried hard to ignore the audible groan that issued from his belly as the gnawing carried on tormenting him.

The evening would bring little relief, that was something he could be sure of— the heat here stayed thick in the summer air well into the dead of the night, and the Darkness was itself a hunter that would prey upon him if given a ghost of a chance. What cruel irony it would be to end up a meal in search of his own food. It was enough to bring a bitter chuckle to his throat, barely spilling over his dry, cracked lips. 

Wilson couldn't tell if he'd lost weight, but he was sure that he must have, by now. Food had been getting scarcer and scarcer as the summer had worn on, and it had been days since he'd managed to get anything to eat at all. It wouldn't be long now before he became dizzy, and then sick from famish. What came next? He couldn't think of it right now...

Ah! What he could think of was some potential solution to all this. It was a long shot, a poor solution, and yet it was all he could come up with. Perhaps, Wilson thought, if he called upon the master of this island, he might be enticed to come and bargain with him. No, really it wasn't much, but it was better than sitting around idle waiting for the gnawing to expose his bones.

"Maxwell," he murmured. "Maxwell, are you there?"

Nothing happened. It was expected, but disappointing. It wasn't as if he still had that radio; he didn't have some direct line to the man. How could Maxwell possibly _hear_ him? It was unscientific, even by the ridiculous standards of the Constant and its hellish lack of logic.

Frustrated, Wilson leaned against his shovel and groaned unintelligible curses into the rough wood. How could he have fallen so far? What could possess him to leave behind all he knew and grasp at twisted faerie tales?

"Say, pal. You don't look so good."

Wilson jumped with a most undignified yelp at the sound of the familiar greeting, snatching his shovel from the ground and rocking back to wield it breathlessly toward the source before he could even process the words. The Constant had made him paranoid; it had made him a survivor.

"My, my," chided the man standing now in Wilson's camp, tall and dark and sharp as knives. His eyes burned gold against the umber of his skin and the purple of evening, and his grin was fit to cut Wilson to ribbons. "Jumpy, are we? Here I just came because I thought you might be in need of a helping hand."

Wilson pressed his lips into a line and wrinkled his nose at the would-be _helping hand_ , stained pitch black and talon-like. He accepted it anyway, dropping the shovel unceremoniously as he was drawn to his feet almost entirely without his strength.

"Well, I thank you, Maxwell," Wilson answered primly, releasing Maxwell's hand to wipe his own on his vest, "I must say, I, ah, didn't quite expect you to hear me."

"Oh no? I believe I told you that I would, if ever you spoke my name." Maxwell asked, raising an eyebrow. He gestured into the air, and a cigar manifested itself in his newly freed hand. He took a drag, long and thoughtful, and held it contemplatively before blowing smoke into the air like a modern dragon. Only once the smoke had dissipated completely did he go on to comment coolly, "But let's get straight to the point. It seems to me that you've been out of food for a while, right, pal? Lucky for you, I would so regret to see our little game to end so soon."

Wilson huffed, and he went to answer, but Maxwell was shaking his head, and that was just enough to give him pause. The magician pointed a finger like a claw toward the scientist's belly, and almost at once Wilson was made aware of the gnawing all over again, his stomach groaning as if in the pain it caused him. He winced, and Maxwell seemed satisfied.

"Don't be so quick to refute me, Higgsbury. After all, wasn't it _you_ who called upon _me?"_ Maxwell pointed out. He took another drag from his cigar, and allowed Wilson to speak what he wished now that he had been afforded a moment to reconsider his words.

As the magician had anticipated, Wilson had changed his answer, no longer wasting time arguing but instead asking, "Alright, so I concede you are correct. But what would it cost me, your helping hand? I have nothing to offer except what you see before you."

Maxwell's expression betrayed how pleased he was by this, yet he remained thoughtful, exhaling smoke, planning his every word as if he were strategizing a war. It was a war he would win, had already won; he had only to deliver that final blow and declare his victory. The only thing he had left to do was to decide what steps would bring him to that moment, unchallenged. 

"I do see some value in what lies before me," Maxwell began idly, watching Wilson wipe the sweat off his sticky brow. "These tools are well-crafted, if of no use to me." he nudged the forsaken shovel with the toe of a well-polished shoe as he said this. Then he paused and gave a chuckle, a low huff of a sound that had no successor. "And then, of course, you stand before me. A scientist and a gentleman, am I wrong?"

Wilson froze, feeling the heat drained out of is body and leaving him numb to the overwhelming summer bearing down around him. Surely Maxwell could not imply what he seemed to. He could not have looked into Wilson's thoughts to turn his unspoken ideas against him, nor worse— could he intend to use his body in return for food!

Evidently the scientist's emotions were clear in his features, for Maxwell quirked an eyebrow and cocked his head slightly to one side with a bemused but pleasant smirk. Wilson was so humiliated he could have thrown himself to the mercy of the Merms. 

"My... what are you imagining?" Maxwell asked. He dismissed the cigar once more with a wave of his hand and stepped towards Wilson, closing the distance between them easily with a single stride of those long legs.

There he was, suddenly, close enough to touch. And touch he did, putting a hand on Wilson's chin to tilt back the scientist's head, forcing him to look at him with gentle talons. There was a long silence, pouring into the emptiness that had made such work of Wilson's insides until he was full of it. He could see nothing but the gold of Maxwell's eyes and breathe nothing but his cologne, heady like musk. His face was hotter than the deadly summer itself.

"What do you think I was going to ask in return?" Maxwell asked, his voice dropping low, resonating with Wilson's very heartbeat. "What do you _want_ me to ask?"

Wilson swallowed, shivering. To speak seemed an impossible task, beyond the reach of a simple human so intent only on living. Barely an aristocrat now, he was; his pride and education were all he had left of that life. His wealth and family were behind him, his handsome pale skin burned by chemicals, his fine ebony hair made wild from his life in the Constant. What good had any of it done him?

His hands came up to rest on Maxwell's chest as if of their own accord, and he looked at him with such earnestness that it could give the King of Shadows pause, even for an instant, as he waited to see what answer Wilson would give.

"I can't say I know what you're implying," the scientist said slowly, as the words stuck to his tongue and refused to leave a noble mouth, "but tell me so I may... consider it."

Maxwell's gentle touch became a harsh grip, almost enough to hurt. _"Consider it?"_ he asked coyly. "There's nothing you wouldn't do to get my help, is there? Tell me, you would do _anything_." He drew out the final word deliberately, clearly enjoying its implications.

Wilson was beginning to reconsider, seriously entertaining the idea of giving this whole thing up and taking his chances foraging. Yet, the pain in his empty stomach wouldn't allow his pride to win this debate; it swallowed it down and forced him to put up his white flag.

" _Yes!_ Do I have to spell it out?" Wilson's embarrassment was rough in his voice, impatient and high, making his accent seem more pronounced than usual. His wide eyes were like silver before Maxwell's gold. He went on unbidden, letting that frustration carry his words. "If you want me to beg, or you're intent on using me, or you've something else entirely up your sleeve, you have only to say it. My situation is as desperate as you believe, I'm starving. Does that satisfy you? Do you want me to go on?"

Maxwell drank this in, taking his time in turning it over in the way that had become characteristic over the course of this encounter. It was enough to make Wilson feel even weaker than the hunger had already made him, until his knees were shaking and his legs threatened to give way and drop him to the ground.

At length, the King of Shadows finally released Wilson's chin and took a step back, affording the scientist a little space once more. It was almost possible to breathe again, but Wilson didn't dare to try. He had to stay still lest he risk dropping to his knees of his own volition.

The cigar returned and with it, Maxwell's smirk. Wilson steeled himself to keep from falling.

"Hmm... I believe I'm satisfied already,"Maxwell said, gesturing with the cigar. "I suppose for now I'll leave it at that."

"What?" Wilson was so shocked that he was almost _disappointed_. "You... you aren't still going to help me? Don't you still require some tribute?"

"I liked hearing you betray that aristocratic pride of yours," Maxwell replied with a wink that sent chills down Wilson's spine. It was not unpleasant. "So, I'll leave it at that. This time." 

He busied himself with his cigar for a moment, then, with smoke pouring out of his mouth he said, "Now, I do wish I could stick around, Higgsbury, but unfortunately, I do have somewhere I need to be. Until next time, pal."

He was gone before Wilson could reply, twisting tendrils of wispy shadow taking over his form and leaving only a purple smoke which quickly dissipated in his absence. It was how he always left; with the flair of a natural stage performer. It was always disappointing to see, in some odd way that stirred vaguely in the places that the gnawing hadn't yet eaten away.

Wilson was left with a small chest, which, upon opening, he found to be filled with fresh food. He touched it with an awed hand, almost unable to believe that it was real, before he began to eat with abandon, his cheeks flushed and his mind entirely on Maxwell, who took only the offered pieces of his pride, and nothing more. 

 

 

 


End file.
